


Violence in his Fingertips.

by Michaelssw0rd



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: BAMF Q, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 04:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11177508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: Bond goes missing on a mission, presumed dead. Nobody cares.Q knows he will always protect his own, even if he had not realized he had already labelled Bond ashis.





	Violence in his Fingertips.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enkiduu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkiduu/gifts).



> When I asked her what she wanted for her birthday, she asked for 00Q. Angst with a happy ending. 
> 
> Well,  
> How could I refuse.
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY SWEETHEART.

There is sound of explosion ringing in Q’s ear- familiar, when one is tasked with babysitting the rogue agent. Q rolls his eyes, reprimand falling from his lips even as he types rapidly to do damage control. M’s patience is already stretched thin, and he won’t tolerate another international incident. Q knows this, Bond knows this, but only one of them seem to care.

“That’s what teams are for, Q.” He always teases whenever the quartermaster tries to remind him of the proper protocol, and complains about the pains he has to take to cover the double o’s tracks.

What’s unfamiliar is the lack of comments on his rant, even after Q goes off in a tangent. It is enough to make his fingers pause.

“007?” He asks, tentative. The link is still open. He can hear the sound of burning fire, and sirens- 007 has still not evacuated the place. “007, are you there?”

He hears something then, a mumbled. “Q.” followed by the sound of muffled grunt of pain.

In an instant Q is on his feet, trying to get a visual of the place, the way his heart is beating rapidly-a distraction, his shaking fingers-a nuisance.

But it’s still better than a moment later, when the sound from the other end cuts off, dissolving into static and everything freezes: his heart, his fingers, his life.

The last thing he hears is a scream.

And it begins.

**

“This is a phenomenally stupid idea, even by your standards.” Q paces the hotel room, not even bothering to look at the infuriating man sprawled on the bed.

“Oh come on Q. It’s not that bad,” he drawls lazily- sexily, but Q refuses to acknowledge that.

He whips around, exasperated. “You are planning on infiltrating a covert terrorist ring in a developing country to dismantle it from within,” when Bond just shrugs at that, Q adds, “as a hobby.”

“It’s fun.”

“You are supposed to be on medical leave!” Q throws his hand up in the air.

“I got bored.” Bond sits up and leans forward, the amusement in his eyes turning into sincerity, and Q is not ready to deal with it on his off day. “Only thing I need is your help.”

Q scolds his heart for the way it flutters- Bond knows what he is doing, seduction is a weapon too, one Bond wields a little too well- and shakes his head. “I am not helping you on your suicide mission 007. If M finds out, he will court martial both of us, and I don’t know about you, but I really like this job.”

“Didn’t you say you can do more damage with your laptop in your PJs than I can do in a year?” Bond challenges, the bastard. “Well now is your time to prove it.”

“If you think goading me is going to work-”

“Please Q.”

And that word is his undoing. He knows he can’t resist the way those steel grey eyes can reflect a world of compassion and sincerity, the way the voice can become an earnest plea. He is no secret agent. He never stood a chance.

“Shit.”

**

M doesn’t care about losing his best agent.

“He got himself in the situation himself, he can damn well find his way out of it. He was not working under MI-6’s orders and I will take no part in this.” He rises from his seat, glaring at Q like _he_ is the one saying something absurd.

“Acknowledged Sir. But 007 has successfully completed more missions than all of the other 00 agents combined, surely…” Q clasps his hands behind his back, to hide the way they shake.

“I am not sending a team into middle of bloody Waziristan, and start a diplomatic disaster just because your pet agent got stir crazy.” M softens his voice then. “This was his choice Q. I value the life of my agents. All of them. And you know you won’t ask this if it was anyone else.”

Q clenches his teeth tightly, holding back a cry of, ‘ _but it’s not anyone else_.’ The pity in M’s eyes is unbearable, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak a word without screaming.

He nods, and quietly leaves.

A long time ago, he had told Bond he could cause more destruction with his pinky than Bond can cause with all of his weapons combined. At his terminal, he raises his shaking hands in front of him, and stares at their uselessness.

And makes a decision.

**

“007, I feel the need to remind you that _that_ piece of nano-recorder took the Q department five months to develop and it is the only prototype. That you _stole_. I implore you to bring it back in one piece from your so called vacation.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, already planning how to speed up the production of next prototype before anyone notices its absence.

“See now, Q. If you make me an exploding pen, I would stop stealing your prototypes.”

“That’s debatable.” Q instills as much disapproval in his voice as he can muster, and is rewarded by a quiet chuckle from the other end.

He is annoyed by how a smile tugs at his lips at the sound, lasting even after Bond casually slips the nano-recorder into the fish tank in the Hakeem’s- the suspected leader of the terrorist ring- house.

**

It take three days.

Q knows how to push and pull the invisible strings of organizations. He knows the power of whispered words, and covertly offered money. He knows how to hack satellites and casually threaten the lives of loved ones- and mean it.

He doesn’t play this game often. He doesn’t _like_ this game. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t memorized the rules.

It takes him three days.

That’s three days too many.

The moment he knows, he stands up, knocking over the cup of stale, untouched tea, for the first time in hours, and books a flight.

He is scared of flying. But nothing is as frightening as the knowledge that he might be too late.

**

“For heaven’s sake Bond… this is dangerous.” Q is frustrated beyond words, but the agent is as stubborn as he is deadly.

“Everything worth doing is dangerous Q.” He can hear him packing quietly from the other end.

“Not like this. This is a whole organization against one man. It’s suicide. If you won’t care for your life, at least think about the people who do.” He loses his cool, shouting, but is met by calm silence from the other end.

“I need to do this. I am in too deep to pull out.” When Bond speaks his voice is apologetic, and it soothes Q’s frayed nerves.

“I understand,” he sighs eventually. Because he does understand. It doesn’t mean he has to like it.

He can almost see the smile on 007’s face then when he asks, “Mission objectives, quartermaster?”

Q closes his eyes, prays for the only thing he cares about, and orders.

“Don’t die.”

**

June in Pakistan is dry and scorching, as he steps out into the sun. He feels his skin burn as he walks, the heat of the ground seeping through the soles of his shoes. It feels like Q always imagined hell would, and he straightens his shoulders, determined to fight any demon he has to, to reach what is his.

There is blood on his hands, he never doubted that. But it’s always been strangely clinical, death administered through cleverly typed words, seen across a screen from thousands of mile away.

But every now and then, a trigger needs to be pulled. He understands that.

Which is why he doesn’t blink when he points his gun at the two men who are keeping Bond captive in that hellhole- in between the eyes, quick and efficient. They fall to the floor before they even understand what happened. His hands don’t even tremble. 

"You have to mean it." Bond used to insist everytime he bullied the quartermaster into practicing at shooting range. Q thinks he finally understands. 

Blood on his hand doesn’t change color with proximity of the death. Red is red.

And Q has never been squeamish.

**

Objectively, Q always knows 007 is resilient.

He has seen him after missions, all broken bones and blood loss, more often than he likes- thirty-three times to be exact, four times it was very touch and go. He stays in the infirmary by his side every time, until he blinks his eyes open, vanishing before Bond can notice his presence.

He realizes his behavior is bordering on pathetic, but he likes to see his equipment come back in working condition. Likes to make sure. Somehow he fears Bond is the one thing he might never be able to replace.

Later, he chastises 007 for losing his cutting edge technology, because if he doesn’t, he thinks he would resort to thanking him for coming back alive.

The fact of 007’s resilience is proven, time and again.

And yet, when he sees the man bound to the chair, his skin ripped to shreds, bruises covering the parts which are not actively bleeding, he wonders _how_.

Bond looks up then, squinting through his eyes that have swollen shut, and _smiles_.

Q is next to him instantly, cutting the ropes, and trying not to listen to the groans as he helps him into the getaway car.

Halfway through the drive, he keeps throwing concerned glances towards the agent, and almost misses it when he whispers, “Mission objectives complete,” before passing out.

**

The bath tub is full of lukewarm water, and the water has started draining clear instead of rust colored. Finally.

Bond is sitting docile, letting the quartermaster clean his wounds to his satisfaction. He has barely spoken a word ever since he woke up in the hotel room, Q injecting him with painkillers the moment he opened his eyes.

It must still hurt, the water on his raw, open wounds wound must be an agony, but Bond doesn’t utter a word of complaint.

Q’s pants are soaked and soggy, his sleeves rolled up, as he kneels at Bond’s side, picking up water in the cup of his palm and pouring it gently over the areas not submerged in water. He feels an unfamiliar emotion ball up in his throat as he hovers his fingers over the marks on Bond’s back- long, parallel, torn into his skin. Lashes.

A strangled sound leaves his throat, wanting to scream because Bond won’t. The agent turns his head slightly at the sound, looking curious, and more aware of the surrounding than he has been in a while. He looks heart wrenchingly confused, watching Q’s shoulder shake with barely restrained emotion.

“Why?” he croaks, his voice hoarse. Q’s eyes linger on his throat, the livid bruises glaring back at him.

‘ _Why did you come to save me,_ ’ he is asking. Q knows.

“Don’t ask ridiculous questions. I wasn’t about to abandon you. That’s what teams are for.” He tries for nonchalance but he can’t help how his breath hitches. He almost lost him.

Bond shakes his head, the water from his hair falling in his eyes and he blinks it away, his face an open question. “Why?” he asks again.

Q answers the only way he can.

“James.” He whispers, worships, and bends to press his lips against Bond’s bruised ones.

**

Bond lies in bed, and Q joins him after fussing, making sure his bandages are in place. Q knows he is woefully inadequate, Bond needs proper medical care, but he does his best. They can’t risk going to a hospital while in enemy territory.

He turns towards the man he almost lost, the man who went through torture Q can’t even begin to imagine, and is not surprised to see him smiling at him, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Q must’ve looked questioning because he answers, the hoarseness of his voice doing nothing to hide his amusement. “Does this mean you will finally make me an exploding pen?”

Q rolls his eyes, the vise around his heart giving a little.

“Maybe.”

**

He spends the next two days back at MI-6 working on a pen that would detonate when clicked twice.

James kisses him as a reward.

It is a win, win.


End file.
